Out Оf Circulation

THIRTY

The Ducote sisters were definitely devious enough to be pulling the puppet strings, and I had been all too willing to let them.

I found it difficult, though, to think of them in that way. They would have to be fine actresses to dissemble that well—the Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine of Athena.

No, I just couldn’t see them that way.

All this speculation was fruitless. With a sigh I got up and started to clear the table. Once that was done, I went to the den to watch television, but that failed to hold my interest. Diesel was not pleased when I roused him from the couch and told him I was going to bed.

He followed me nevertheless, and by the time I was ready to slip under the covers, he was sound asleep, sprawled over his half of the bed. More like two-thirds, really. I made myself comfortable, picked up the Ellery Adams book, and this time I focused on the story and was soon absorbed by it.

When I woke in the morning, after a surprisingly restful night’s sleep, I was alone in bed. Diesel could be quite the nocturnal gadabout, but I was used to it by now.

As I came down the stairs, I sniffed and happily detected the smell of bacon. Azalea was back today, and I could look forward to a nice, full breakfast. No making do with cereal and toast today.

Once I had fortified myself with a stout breakfast I would try to convince Azalea to talk to me and tell me everything she’d seen in that dark stairwell on Tuesday night.

When I walked into the kitchen I thought for a moment I was seeing double. There were two Azaleas standing at the stove, their backs to me. After the first moment of shock passed I realized that one of the Azaleas was slightly taller than the other and wore a different-colored dress.

“Good morning, Azalea.”

The two figures turned, and Azalea turned out to be the shorter one. The resemblance between the two of them was eerie. Then I noticed the other woman looked older than Azalea and tired. Deep lines scored her forehead, and I realized this must be Azalea’s sister Lily.

“Morning, Mr. Charlie,” Azalea said, wiping her hands on her apron. “This is my sister Lily Golliday. I brought her with me to help with some of the heavy cleaning today. She used to help me out some when Miss Dottie was alive. I sure hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” I said warmly. “Good morning, Mrs. Golliday. I’m glad to meet you.” I advanced and extended a hand.

Lily’s hand trembled as she placed it in mine. She ducked her head shyly. “Thank you, Mr. Charlie. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Lily, why don’t you go on and be sorting out that laundry,” Azalea said. “Soon’s I finish up with breakfast we gonna start on the upstairs.”

Lily nodded and glanced at me before she disappeared into the utility room.

Azalea poured me a cup of coffee, then returned to the stove to plate my food. As she set it down, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Charlie. I appreciate you letting Lily help me today. She done lost her job and she can’t stand not being busy.”

“Lily can help you as much as you need her,” I said. “I heard about her losing her job.” Belatedly I realized that was probably a mistake.

Sure enough, Azalea glowered at me. “How you be hearing about Lily losing her job? Ain’t nobody knowing about that but me and her and the Beauchamps.”

“Actually I heard it from Kanesha,” I said meekly. “I talked to her yesterday when I mentioned I’d been to see the Beauchamps about something. When I told her I was surprised the house was in bad shape and there wasn’t much furniture, she told me about your sister being let go. That was all it was.” I probably said too much. Azalea had that effect on me sometimes.

She appeared to be mollified, however. Maybe she wouldn’t rake Kanesha over the coals later for blabbing to me. “I forgot Kanesha knew. She and Lily be real close.”

That was a bullet dodged. Azalea turned away, and I tucked into my breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy. While I ate, Azalea followed her sister into the utility room, and they emerged several minutes later and headed upstairs.

There was still no sign of Diesel. I wished I could lie in bed till all hours sometimes, but this morning I had too much to do. Before I reported for my volunteer shift at the public library at eleven I needed to get to the courthouse. And before I left for the courthouse I wanted to talk to Azalea.

I checked the clock. I had two hours and forty-three minutes to do all that. I chewed my final mouthful of bacon and biscuit, had a last sip of coffee, then hurried upstairs to get dressed.

I heard movement on the third floor when I came out of my bedroom ten minutes later, and I headed up the stairs. There were four bedrooms up there, an empty one on either end. Stewart and Justin occupied the other two, also at opposite ends of the floor. Azalea and Lily must be working in the vacant ones.

As I neared the open door of one bedroom I could hear voices.

“…such nice things Miss Dottie had,” Lily said with a catch in her voice. “Miss Sissy and Mr. Hank used to have, but they’s all about gone now. My heart be just about breaking for them, ’Zalea. That house look so pitiful now.”

I paused about three feet away from the door. Perhaps now wasn’t the best time to interrupt the sisters for my conversation with Azalea.

When I heard Lily start sobbing I beat a hasty retreat. I would talk to Azalea later.

Diesel greeted me on the second-floor landing. Laura’s door stood open, and she poked her head out. “Morning, Dad.”

“Morning, sweetheart. How are you this morning?”

“Fine.” She yawned. “Still sleepy, but okay. How are you?”

“Fine also, but I have a busy morning, and I need to leave Diesel here. I have some business at the courthouse, and I can’t take him with me.”

“I’m going to be here until lunchtime,” Laura said. “Is that long enough?”

“Should be. Thank you.” I looked down at the cat. “Diesel, I want you to stay with Laura this morning. I would take you if I could, but the person I need to see is allergic to cats.”

The one time before I had tried to take Diesel with me to the vital records section had been a disaster. The poor woman there sneezed so much that I took Diesel away after about three minutes. I explained this hurriedly to Laura.

“No problem, Dad. Come on, Diesel, come back in here with me.”

Diesel looked from me to her before, tail in the air, he turned and strode in majestic leisure down the hall to my daughter’s room. Laura and I exchanged grins before I hurried downstairs.

I couldn’t remember the name of the woman in the vital records office, but a nameplate told me that she was Laurel Sanders. I greeted her, and she looked up from her desk. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized me.

She frowned at me. “Did you bring your cat with you?”

When I assured her I hadn’t, she relaxed. “I actually do like cats,” she said. “I’m just horribly allergic.”

“No need to apologize,” I said. “I need your help this morning.”

She approached the counter, peering over the glasses that had slid down her nose. “What are you looking for?”

“Birth and death certificates, and also several wills.” I jotted the names and approximate dates down for her.

She scanned the list. “Some prominent names here.” She nodded. “This will take a few minutes, but I’ll find what you need.” She pointed to a desk in the corner. “Just wait there.”

“Thank you.” I sat down at the desk and divested myself of my coat and briefcase. I pulled out a pen and a notepad, ready to jot down details.

Twenty minutes passed before Ms. Sanders returned. She was remarkably efficient, but I knew she had worked in this office for over twenty years. She had to keep everything properly organized in order to be so effective, and I respected that. In many ways she was like a reference librarian, and a first-rate one at that.

I had to sign a receipt for each document she handed me, and that took a few minutes. Finally I was able to sit down at the desk again and start my research.

I checked the birth and death records first and noted them on my pad. Once that was done I checked the dates and determined that Richard Ducote could not have been the father of Vera Cassity. She was only seventy-three when she died, three months past her birthday, according to her birth certificate, and he died about two years before she was born.

One question resolved. With no blood relationship to the Ducotes, Vera could not have laid claim to Richard Ducote’s estate, although she and the Ducote sisters shared the same mother.

Now for the wills. Richard Ducote first.

I skimmed through the legalese and found the pertinent information. Other than small legacies to some of his household servants—not including Essie Mae McMullen—he left the bulk of his estate in trust for his two daughters, An’gel and Richelle (a.k.a. Dickce). When they each turned twenty-one they would inherit half the estate. He settled a substantial amount on his wife, Cecilia, in a trust for her lifetime. His two executors were named administrators of the trust. Should Cecilia remarry, the money would revert to the estate to be divided between her daughters.

That was it. Not a single mention of Essie Mae anywhere.

Frankly I found it odd. Not to leave anything to the mother of his two children? It was cold, not to mention callous.

Did he trust Cecilia to provide for Essie Mae? And had that trust been fulfilled?

I turned to Cecilia’s will. No surprises here, and no mention of Essie Mae. Cecilia left everything to An’gel and Dickce.

The lack of provision for Essie Mae disturbed me even more. Had Cecilia booted her out of the house after Richard’s death? I could understand Cecilia’s feelings in the matter, naturally, but still.

Perhaps there was an explanation in the journal. I had read about two-thirds of it, I estimated, and if the journal extended to the time of Richard’s death and after, the answers to my questions could be within its pages.

The last document was the last will and testament of Esther Mae McMullen Hobson. She left all her worldly goods to her daughter, Vera Micaela Hobson, and her son, Amory McMullen Hobson. I wondered where the Micaela came from, and then I remembered reading that Essie Mae’s father was called Mick, probably short for Michael.

No answers in Essie Mae’s will, either.

It all came down to the journal, then.

I returned the documents to Ms. Sanders. She checked them carefully, one by one, to make sure they were not damaged in any way. After she was satisfied, I thanked her again and left the courthouse.

I checked my watch. It was a quarter to ten. I had accomplished a lot in a surprisingly short amount of time.

On my way out of the courthouse I spotted Hank Beauchamp down the hall. He wore that same rumpled suit, and I recognized it as the one he had worn to the gala. Evidently it was the only one he had. He was busy chatting with someone and didn’t see me, and I had no reason to interrupt his conversation.

Instead, blessing the efficiency and speediness of Ms. Sanders, I hopped into my car and headed for the archives office.

Seven minutes later I sat at my desk, Cecilia’s journal in my hands. I found the place I’d left off and began to read again.

Cecilia professed to be ecstatic over her two darling girls, and Richard adored them as well. There was no mention of Essie Mae for several pages. There were accounts of social events, a short trip to New Orleans with Richard, and then the entries grew more sporadic. Months passed without one, and in a few pages two years sped by. Evidently Cecilia was too busy with the children or with the social activities entailed by her position as Mrs. Richard Ducote to have much time to spare for her journal.

I persisted, however, in hopes that I would find another mention of Essie Mae. The first one I found shocked me.

I am in complete despair. I thought Richard was happy with our two dear little angels, but he confessed to me this morning that he still longs for a son. He needs a son, he says, to keep the Ducote name alive. He owes it to his ancestors to make sure the name goes on. I was furious with him, because I knew what he wanted. Essie Mae is still here, though I do my best to forget her completely, and apparently willing to bear him another child, but I WILL NOT HAVE IT!!!

The next entry occurred on a date I recognized. Cecilia wrote simply that Richard was killed in an accident that day.

Two months passed before she wrote in her journal again.

I still can’t believe that Dick is gone. The house seems surprisingly empty now. There is so much quiet. I hadn’t realized how alive and vital a man he was, the flurry of activity that always seemed to surround him. He was the love of my life, despite his transgressions. What shall the girls and I do without him?

We will do without Essie Mae, however. I will have her out of this house as quickly as possible. There is a local farmer who has been trying to court her, Jedediah Hobson. He is rough and uneducated, but he seems very much in love with her. I have told her that if she will marry him and leave this house and never come back, I will see that she will be rewarded. She does not know that Dick wanted to change his will to settle a large sum on her, in addition to his provisions for me and my darling angels. I managed to stall him, and then he was killed before he had the lawyer draw it up.

Conscience nags at me. I would love to kick her out of this house without a cent, but every time I look at my sweet girls, I would be reminded, and I cannot have her on my conscience. Dick would reproach me from the grave. Therefore I have made her write and sign a statement that once she leaves this house she will never return, nor will she ever have any contact with my daughters. If she does she will forfeit the money she will be paid every month. Now I wait only to hear whether she has decided to marry Hobson, and the sooner she does so, the better.

I turned the page and found a small, folded sheet of paper. I opened it and read the contents—Essie Mae’s agreement to leave River Hill and never return. She stated that she would never see or speak to An’gel or Dickce again, on pain of forfeiting her annuity, as she called it.

I folded the paper and tucked it back inside. I set the journal down. There was something so sad and so touching about that spidery handwriting. A mother renouncing all claim to her children forever.

My heart ached for her.